


Golden Bird

by same_menz_new_cult



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Bellamione Cult Discord Game, But not exactly, Discord: Bellamione Cult, F/F, i had a fever and i wrote this in one sitting so blame the plague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 04:53:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18653287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/same_menz_new_cult/pseuds/same_menz_new_cult
Summary: when in pursuit of a golden bird, beware shiny things, edges of streams, and sleeping beneath the apple tree.making old fairy tales gay was like,,, my first hobby





	Golden Bird

**Author's Note:**

> challenge prompt: fairy tale

Beyond the borders of a town less interesting than any of the things at its fringes stood a great manor house which secreted away behind its stone walls and iron gates, a hedge maze, at the heart of which stood a tree that bore golden apples. The first day of autumn, just as the apples were growing ripe, the Lord of the manor ordered them counted. The very next morning, one had gone missing. 

When the Lord heard the news, he ordered a watch be set beneath the tree in the heart of the maze every night, determined to catch the thief. 

The Lord had three daughters, the youngest of whom he sent, as soon as night fell, into the maze. She was his most trusted and cherished child, promised to a worthy family since birth, and kept close within the manor walls to waylay any chance of danger or disobedience. As beautiful and frail as the reflection of the moon upon a lake, she could not keep herself awake past midnight in the chill night air. The next morning, again an apple was gone. 

The next evening, the Lord sent his second daughter to keep watch. She was a sturdier thing, he thought, though he had long regretted allowing her to leave the grounds for schooling; a lesson in temper learnt by the time his last came along. Still, disinterested in the missing treasure, she slept beneath the tree at the strike of twelve, and in the morning, a third apple had vanished. 

At last, the Lord sent his eldest daughter to keep watch. She was keen of eye and quick on the hunt, but he trusted her least of all; in fact, he thought her quite mad. After the death of the Lady of the manor, the eldest daughter had never set aside her mourning gowns, and had taken to wandering the halls and grounds at night, conspiring with unseen ghosts and hunting the small prey that burrowed and pecked at the lawn. Still, as he came upon her sharpening the dull side of a kitchen knife into a two-edged blade, he reluctantly bade her go. With a grin like as not to give her father ill dreams, she went. She laid down beneath the tree in the heart of a maze she knew like the lines of her palm, and did not allow sleep to master her. 

When the distant tower clock struck twelve, a blur streaked between stars and mist, rustled the leaves, and in their distant light, she saw a bird land upon the tree, it's feathers shining as gold as the fruit which it plucked. It took off as quickly as it had landed, but the eldest daughter uncurled her wrist with a snap of silver, and her dagger knocked a single golden feather from its breast. She wandered the maze till first light when at last she spotted its glittering edges caught in the side of a hedge. She picked it up and, yawning quite indelicately, brought it before the Lord, telling him idly what she'd seen in the night. The Lord called a meeting of his most trusted conspirers; all agreed the feather alone was worth more than the sum of his house and lands. 

"If this trinket is so precious," he declared, "one alone will never do. I must have the whole bird!" 

And so the youngest daughter set out to fetch it. She was his most trusted, after all, and who better to fetch such a prize than the greatest prize in his holdings. She, however, had never before set foot beyond the great iron gate, and tread cautiously upon the path towards town. When she had gone some distance, she spied a curious creature sitting at the edge of a swampy grove. Clutching her skirts about her, she hastened several paces back from its dark eyes and white teeth, nervous despite its sleek coat and diminutive size. "Don't run!" the creature cried. "Stay, and I will give you advice you sorely need." 

But the young woman, having never encountered any creature such as this, let alone one which spoke to her in her own tongue, turned and fled on her heels. 

"Choose the shabby inn!" the voice called after her. "And you will be on your way to the golden bird!"  

When she came at last into town, she found before her two inns. One was lit with bright candles and strings of glittering bulbs, and from behind its door, music swelled out into the night. Through its windows, she could see dancing, revelry, and a spread more than suitable for a dinner back home. The other was dark, dull, and poorly kept, and through its windows she saw only a single miserable barkeep, running a dirtied rag over his counter. 

"How can some silly creature give wise advice?" the youngest daughter asked herself. "I should be some fool to wander into an ill-kept place like that." So she tossed a straying lock of silver-blond hair over her shoulder and strode into the cheerful inn. There, before morning, she had drank her fill, danced as she'd never had chance to do before, and lost herself in the riot and revel, forgotten the bird, forgotten her father, and abandoned her quest. 

When some time had passed and his treasured daughter did not return to him, the Lord sent forth his second, bidding her find what had befallen his first, and find the golden bird. 

The creature met her on her way, and she, having spent time at her studies, recognized it as a river otter. This time, the creature's advice was met with wide, startled eyes, but she listened all the way through. "You are on the path to what you seek, but this evening as you come into town, you will see two inns on either side of a narrow street. One will be glowing with unfortunate cheer, but you must not enter. Go instead into the darkened inn, no matter how poor it seems." 

She came to the two inns and spied her sister through the gleaming glass of the first. She hesitated; there was an unusual glint in her sister's eye, a smile turned strange, but then over her shoulder she saw none other than the boy she had fallen for in her lessons, her schoolgirl crush which had, upon confession to her family, cost her and her younger sister their freedom, as he was not from a suitable family for a lady of their heritage. When the two called out to her, she could not resist, and hurried along inside where she danced through the night in the arms of her love, and lived only for pleasure. 

Again, weeks passed, the crop of golden apples fell from the tree unharvested in the Lord's single-minded quest for new riches, and the eldest offered her hand at the hunt. 

At first, the Lord would not allow it. "It isn't any use," he said. "No madwoman can find the golden bird, and should anything... else... befall her, she will return still more addled than before." Still, as weeks spoiled into months of sleepless nights, he had no peace, and let her go. 

Again the otter sat upon a stone at the edge of the swampy wood, waiting for another to seek this prize. Unlike her sisters, the eldest greeted it with the tip of her dagger. "You are not the one I wanted," said the otter in a rather shrill, unhappy voice. "But you'll just have to do." 

With narrowed eyes, she asked, "Do I know you?" 

Before her, the otter took on a curious expression, an eerily human confusion fogging its whiskered face. "I'm not entirely sure," it said. "No, I am sure I've never seen you before, yet all the same..." 

With a turn of her wrist, the eldest slipped the dagger up into her sleeve. "Well. Seeing as I would surely recall a talking otter, let us get on with this quest nonsense, shall we?" 

"We shall," it answered, wrinkling a disgruntled nose. "And seeing as none among your family seems inclined to listen to me, let's see if I can't help you along your way." 

And so the otter turned and slipped off into the marsh, bidding the eldest follow close behind by holding onto its tail, and away they went over the driest ground and logs and stones, until they came to the town as the crow would have flown, with the sun still in the sky. By daylight, the two inns looked much the same, and the eldest took the otter's good advice with a shrug, ate heartily and slept through a quiet night, and set off the next morning through open country, none the wiser that her sisters danced upon table tops just across the way. 

The otter sat waiting for her among a patch of reeds. "Listen now and I will tell you what you have to do." 

The eldest plucked out her dagger and ran it idly beneath a thumbnail. "I do not take kindly to being told what to do." 

"Have I led you astray so far?" said the otter with a snap of its teeth. 

"Lead, then," said the eldest with an idle, sideways smile. "But do not  _tell me what to do_." 

With a most peculiar huff for a snouted thing, the otter continued on with its instructions. "Carry on ahead; it's a straight shot through to an old castle. In front of it, you'll find a hooded army wearing silver masks, but don't trouble yourself with them. They'll be fast asleep. Walk through quick and silent, up the stairs and down the hall, and search the rooms at the end until you find the bird you seek." 

She slid the knife home again, cocky and sure. "Easy peasy."

"Not so easy as that," warned the otter. "You must leave the bird in its wooden cage. In its chamber, there will be another cage, golden and very finely made, but if you put the bird into the better cage, all will go sideways from there." 

With this warning, the otter again turned tail and led the eldest sister across the open country, winding through the golden grasses as, behind her, dark curls whistled in the wind. 

When she came to the castle, all was as the otter had said. The eldest daughter lit silently through the halls like a shadow-wrapped thing with the tread of cobwebs and entered the chamber where the golden bird stood locked up in a wooden cage. Upon closer inspection, she could see it was a proud creature, full breasted, sharp-beaked, with the brow and talons of a raven. It's golden eyes fixed not upon her, but upon a great golden cage just beside it. 

She eyed it with greed. "What furry nonsense, leaving behind one treasure just to take another. I'll take the set." So she opened the wooden door, laid hold of the golden raven, and shoved it unceremoniously into the golden cage. But the very moment it passed the latch, the bird uttered a shrill cry like a thing besieged. The masked guard awoke, rushed in, and though she fought like a creature of the night, they dragged her off to prison. 

The next morning, she was taken in chains before a court of justice where she confessed to every crime through the snarl of the unashamed, and was sentenced to death. 

The Lord of the castle, however, was shocked by the vicious countenance of this woman from afar, and offered her her life on one condition—namely, if she brought him the golden stag which ran faster than the four winds. Should she bridle and return it, she should receive not just her freedom, but the golden bird as well. 

Shaken by her night in a cell, she set off again, no longer quite so enamored of her quest. 

"Look, you." 

She spun towards the voice, reaching for a dagger no longer up her sleeve. There sat the otter, paws slicking back its whiskers as it waited for her to stop looking like a woman possessed of nothing but the urge to make otter stew. 

"None of this would have happened had you listened to me. I do know what I'm talking about, you know." 

The eldest daughter snarled and reached out to end the creature's life with her bare hands, but it sidled away in a sinuous, slippery motion too quick for mere human reflexes to catch. 

"That's some apology," added the otter. "And here when I was about to offer more help." 

Growling low in her throat, she rocked back on her heels and glowered down at her infuriating guide. "Well?" 

"As ungrateful as you are, I will give you my help. I know how to get the golden stag. Straight on again, through to a gated town. At its eastern edge sits a public zoo, and in its first enclosure stands the golden stag. There will be zookeepers trained to guard their charges, but as long as you come by night, they will be asleep at their post. Two bridles will hang beside the trough where it feeds. If you'll listen this time, take heed. Only clasp it in the plain leather straps; do not touch the silken bridle with the golden bit, or you'll live only so long as to regret it." 

And so the otter led them once again across the hills and pastures, two dark streaks in fields of wild grasses as golden as their quarry. 

This town was farther, though, than the castle had been. She slept a night in the fields, tossing and turning with dark and foreign dreams of cold prison walls and heavy iron shackles, waking with her hand wrapped around a vanished blade and her breathing as fast as her urge to flee. 

There was no danger, though. Just a grumpy otter which uncurled from its place at her back with a grumble of "Back to sleep with you" as it climbed higher, and began to run its claws through her hair. Even its discontented muttering was oddly peaceful, and she drifted back into haze. 

The next evening, all was as the otter had said. Left alone at the edge of town, she made her way to the enclosure where the golden stag stood. Just as she reached for the common bridle, her fingers twitched. It felt foolish, still, listening to that squirmy creature with no name and no story over the bird-brained part of her that said grab the shiny things and run. She'd learned her lesson, or so she thought, and clasped a hand around the stag's muzzle to keep it from making a sound as she wrapped it in the silken threads. But no sooner had the golden bit touched its teeth than the stag began to kick its back hooves, thrashing loudly, knocking over a silver bucket with a great clatter as she cursed it's golden hide. The zookeepers woke, seized her, and sent her off to prison. 

Come morning, she found herself further wild-eyed and unkempt, having tossed and turned all night, lit with strange and impossible dreams of cold and draining things, dragged before court to be sentenced, once again, to death. Yet the mayor of the town offered to spare her life, and allow her to take the golden stag as well, should she only bring back the hunting terrier from the castle across the river, a hound which could hunt all manor of golden things for their exotic zoo. 

With a heavy mind, the weary eldest set out again, waiting at the outset of the road for her companion to join her, worn through on threats of ill intent. 

"I should've left you to it," said the otter. "But now, I pity you." 

A warning rumble sounded in the woman's chest, her eyes dark and deadly behind straying strands of wild curls. 

"Hush now, I'm here to help.  _Again._ What you'd do without me... Well, come along, on we go. It's three days walk to the river."

And so, in silence, they went. 

Eventually, as the road grew dusty and wide, the otter scratched at its coat, shuffled strangely with its legs stretched to their fullest, limited height, and began to breathe with a labored, tongue-lolling pant. 

Unspeaking, the eldest daughter reached down, picked up the creature, ignoring its startled, distinctly girlish shriek of surprise, and set it upon her shoulder, where it sat in the shade of her curls for the rest of the uncomfortably dry day. 

At night, they left the path and took shelter in the trees. Once again, she woke between fractured dreams, shivering and hissing out curses against names she did not know. The otter crawled into her lap, pressed its tiny paw against the bones of her ribs, and said in a sleepy murmur, "None of that's out here." 

"I don't know that," she panted. "You can't know that. I don't know what  _that_  is." 

"Well," said the otter. "I've a nose made just for sniffing out the unknown, and I can promise; it's only you and me for miles." 

Reluctantly, still sitting up against the trunk of a tree, narrowed eyes began to flutter closed, and she drifted off to sleep again. She woke at the next dawn with the otter curled up in her lap, a circle of dark fur against dark skirts. 

They made good time, and reached the river by the following dusk. 

"Now," said the otter, a strange tremor in its voice. "You must contend with the prince." 

The eldest daughter wrinkled her nose. "You said nothing of a prince." 

"It is the prince's terrier. I know of only one way to retrieve it. At night, when all is quiet, the prince will be down in the kennel, inspecting the keep of his dogs. When he enters, you must startle him with a kiss; he will follow you gladly. Tell him he must run away with you; he will never leave his golden dog behind. But whatever you do, do not let him speak to his parents before you set out, or—" 

" _Shhhkt,"_ she interrupted, running a finger across her throat. "Heard you the first two times." 

"But did you  _listen_?" 

"Never," said the eldest daughter with that wide, crooked grin, and off she went into the town, smirking to herself with a plan all her own. 

She found the kennels just as the otter had said. She waited until midnight, when the only sounds were the idle rustling of hounds and setters in their crates and stalls. But when the prince came in to see to his stock, she greeted him not with a kiss, but with the slip of a leash down over his head, tightened until he turned blue in the face, and fell into the straw. Leaving him cold upon the floor, she stole the golden terrier from its crate, touched nothing else, and returned to the edge of town. 

The otter was shocked at her return. "Where's the prince?" 

"Sleeping off an uneasy night," she said with a cackle of pure glee. She told the rest as they walked, the terrier trotting easily at her heels, the otter perched upon her shoulders, and when at last she confessed she hadn't held the prince long enough to see him truly dead, just long enough to see him face-first in the dirt and thoroughly unkissable, the otter let out its own laugh of relief, and the day around them was bright. 

As they approached the town they'd set out from the day before, the otter seemed to read her mind. "You've got the best of it; a dog that can hunt you riches beyond compare. But you must have the stag as well, to outrace the crime behind you. 

"And how, pray tell, do I waltz out of there with both?" 

"By heeding my advice," answered the otter with a peevish nip at her ear. "First, bring the golden terrier to the mayor who sent you across the river. There will be a great celebration; they'll parade out the golden stag among all their finest treasures. Mount up; it is made of gold and has the strength to show for it, then bend to offer a final pat good bye to the dog in the mayor's arms. Take hold of its collar, swing it up onto the stag in front of you, and gallop away. Any chase they give will be futile; you'll be funning faster than the wind." 

This time, the eldest daughter followed the otter's words to the letter, and rode free into the plains by sunset, the golden terrier perched before her on the golden stag. 

She stopped before nightfall, waiting for the otter to join her, though not entirely sure why she did. They met by the light of her fire, and she watched its dark eyes watching her across the crackle and smoke, the expression in them distinctly cautious, and eerily familiar. "One stop left, then." 

"The golden bird," she agreed. "Back we go, right off to the start." 

"I will help. You've come farther than I'd ever have thought." 

"I'm flattered," she drawled. 

The creature laughed, circled the fire, and crawled up to sleep in the crook of her shoulder. There were no dreams that night. 

Come morning, the otter offered its advice. "As you come to the castle, leave the terrier with me. Ride the stag into the main courtyard. Let the celebrations begin, until they bring forth your golden bird." 

"Grab it and run?" 

The otter laughed. "Grab it and run." 

And so she did. 

Just as the Lord's daughter prepared to ride home with her prizes, the otter said, "Now, you must reward me for my help." There was a note of fear in its voice, an underpinning of panic. 

"What do I owe you, then?" she asked. 

"When we return to the marsh, snap my neck, then cut off my head and feet."

"Some gratitude!" she cried, aghast. "Who do you think I am?" 

Head hanging low, the otter said, "If you won't grant me this, I have to leave you. And I can only do so with one final piece of advice. Tread only where you have tread before, and do not sit at the edge of any stream." 

The eldest daughter thought, for not the first time, that she had met a ridiculous beast with ridiculous ideas. Why would she wander off now, now that she had her triumph well in hand? And, after several days in the woods, she hadn't the slightest urge to go sitting in rivermuck. Though she did have, as she pointedly did not wave away the otter's retreat, a sense she would miss the ridiculous beast, ridiculous ideas and all. 

On she rode upon the stag with the birdcage in hand, the pup at her heels, and retraced her steps once more into the first town where she had stayed. This time, night had just fallen, and she spied through the gleaming glass of the second inn, two familiar faces. 

Upon seeing his sisters dancing in the arms of strangers, she raced up to the door and threw it wide, calling out to them. 

She did not think twice about going inside as they greeted her with delight and open arms. When she showed them her prizes, they gladly followed her out into the night, and she did not see the strange gleam that remained in their eyes, a gleam as gold as the inn they'd left behind. 

Nighttime was well and truly upon them, and the youngest, proclaiming her fear of the dark, entreated they sit and rest awhile upon the first bridge out of town while she settled her nerves. The eldest easily agreed, forgetting herself, and sat down without feeling the slightest hint of ill intent. 

And yet her two sisters, strangers in the depths of their glowing eyes, threw her backwards over the rail, took the terrier and the stag and the bird, and raced home to their father. 

"Look, father! We've caught the bird," said the youngest. "More than that, we've brought the golden stag and the golden dog too," added her sister. And the manor descended into celebration. Yet the stag's head hung low, the terrier's tail was tucked between its legs, and the bird sat silent in its cage, and would not eat or speak. And the daughters danced on the tables like things possessed, and though none would speak ill of it to their father, who rejoiced at having his kin returned to him at last, none other in the manor house recognized the girls. They bore their faces, their proud noses, their forest-dark and moon-bright hair, but beneath that reveled nothing the manor had seen before. 

In a not-so-distant stream, the eldest daughter was not dead. By good fortune, the brook ran full and fast, and she fell clear of any rocks. But her skirts tangled around her legs, her arms struggled against an unforgiving current, and she sank more often than she surfaced. But even after her latest disregard, the loyal otter did not leave her: it swam to her from its marshy shore, scolded her for failing, yet again, to heed clever wisdom as she should. "But I can't just leave you to drown, can I?" A tail was offered below the waves. She grasped hold of it, and was pulled to shore. 

"There's plenty of danger yet," said the otter as they rested on the bank. "Your sisters, what little remains of them after they entered that cursed place, cannot be certain of your death. They will have sent men from the inn to watch for you, to kill you on sight." 

"Do I look a Lord's daughter?" she asked with a thin, furious smile. 

And the otter had to admit, stream-drenched and mud-coated and wild-eyed, she looked more a beggar than a lady. 

Stealing a cloak from the line behind the devil's inn, she walked up to her father's gate unhindered. There, she found the chain unlatched, left by those invited to the revelry. She passed through the maze that had once been the boundary of her world, marched up to the front door, and strode inside. 

Not a soul there knew her, but all at once, the stag's head rose. The terrier raced towards them, barking and wagging its tail. And the raven ruffled its feathers in its cage, let out a cry that snapped the latch clean in two, and flew to perch on her shoulder (earning a hiss from a displeased otter upon who's tail it had tread). 

Throwing back her hood, her proud stare skewered every man, woman, and child arrayed at the feast, dark curls dripping cold river-water upon the flagstone floor. The Lord, astonished, wondered aloud what this could mean. When at first his eldest daughter began to explain, her sisters moved to stop her, men jeered and laughed, but then the otter raised its head and announced, quite simply, "She speaks the truth. Let her prove what she says." 

And even in a place such as this, talking creatures earned some measure of begrudging respect. 

The otter turned to the eldest daughter and said, "It is time. You have before you everything you wished. All you've left to do to claim it is to end my misery." And again, the ask was made: break my neck, sever my head, chop off my feet. 

Taking up a table-knife in a trembling hand, the eldest sister stared into the eyes of her companion, and did as she had been bade. 

Scarcely had the final furred foot been severed from its knee when, before their eyes, the otter vanished in a single flash of blinding golden light. In its place stood a young woman. As the room stared, mouths agape, she clutched her arms about herself, shivering and blinking, until the eldest daughter stepped forward on unsteady feet and threw her stolen cloak about the woman's naked form. 

"Thank you," she said in an unmistakable voice, pushing an unruly mess of hair back from her eyes. Then she plucked the knife from an unsuspecting hand and, before anyone could move to stop her, severed the head and feet of the terrier. 

Even as the room watched the golden dog become a pale, carrot-topped boy kneeling at the foot of their table, she moved quicker still towards the stag, and struggled to saw through its mighty neck. The Lord moved to stop her, realizing at last all his new treasures were vanishing before his eyes, but his eldest gripped him by the neck of his coat and speared him with the same stare that had haunted him for so many years in his own halls and kitchens, and the otter-girl finished her grisly task. 

In the place of the stag stood another young man, dark-haired and scrawny and tawny-skinned, squinting blindly up at the lights. 

"You're freed," breathed the girl, but she didn't move towards them, staring, instead, at the knife in her hand. 

"Who's the bird, then," asked the eldest daughter with a narrow-eyed sort of curiosity. She watched the boys watching the girl with a strange and sharp loss she could not explain. 

"No one!" she insisted with shocking venom. "It's the cursed thing that began this nightmare for myself and my friends. A trap for those who are greedy for wealth or power." 

"I went after it," admitted the paler boy, tugging uncomfortably at the tablecloth as though hoping he could wrap himself up in it, but unable to get it free. "And he went after me. And she followed along, scolding us all the while, telling us what daft, sorry fools we'd be for not listening to her—"

"Familiar, that," muttered the eldest. 

"—so she got caught up in it different than we did. But still caught." 

"As did your sisters, when they failed," the girl added softly. 

"Not exactly a rewarding quest for me, then. What, was I supposed to wed the prince?" she drawled. "I seem to have caught a... different prize." 

And the otter-turned-woman-again could not escape the sudden weight of the eldest daughter's stare. And, for her part, the eldest daughter could not quite keep herself from staring, eying the tasty little morsel her quest companion had become. 

To her delight, the girl flushed from the base of her throat to the swell of her cheeks and several other bits of skin besides. "You've still got a golden bird," she offered in hasty reply. "I think we all get on with our lives." 

At this, she earned a frown. "What... lives?" The question came slow.

"Our—" the girl started sharply, then froze. "Well, I've got to—" She frowned in consternation. "I must..." 

"Something's not right," the eldest countered evenly. "Somebody's still carrying some sort of curse, or my whole life started the day I shot a golden raven, and I haven't even got a name to go with it." 

"How did I know..." the girl murmured. "...all those steps, all those secrets of towns and castles and rivers I've... I've never seen." 

The room around them seemed, all at once, very still. No one had moved in a great many seconds, and in fact seemed to flicker with the golden window-light of a damningly welcoming inn. All faded, hazed, as though waiting, with a collective holding of breath, for the two women at the foot of the grand table to sort something out. 

 "I've got two fixes I can think of," the eldest daughter announced with unexpected cheer, eyes glinting. "Easiest way to break a curse..." She took three steps across the marble floor, snatched the girl by the shoulders, and kissed her firmly on the mouth.

 Sparks? Certainly. The toe-curling, squeak-strangling, fine-nape-of-neck-hair-up-on-end-and-tingling sort of sparks? Oh, most definitely. But the kind that marked the end of an ill-intended magic? 

It didn't seem so. 

Best, the eldest daughter thought, to try again. 

By the time the cloak-wrapped girl had been released, she was entirely crimson, wide-eyed, and swaying slightly on her feet. 

"Guess not," said the sister, then turned and plunged the knife she'd reclaimed from the girl's lax grip into the neck of the raven. "No!" cried the girl, terrified the curse would start all over again, but she was too late. The head rolled to the floor. One taloned foot followed. When the second foot snapped free like an ash twig, the world melted around them. 

Two witches stared, unseeing, across the stretch of air between them, each clutching one end of a cracked silver crown. Recoiling wildly, Hermione gaped, memory returning in a rush, up at the frowning figure of Bellatrix Lestrange. 

"Interesting way to break a Horcrux," she said in a strangled voice, then tossed the crown at Hermione's feet. It clattered there, ringing dully as its silver raven's wings rocked back and forth, back and forth. Sure enough, the blue stone at its heart looked as though it had been torn open from the inside, like something bursting out of the bird's chest. 

Around them, the Room of Requirement was eerily silent. She remembered separating from Harry and Ron as they went to unlock the Chamber, not wanting to risk Ron's strangled Parseltongue on something as important as retrieving fangs that could end bits of Voldemort's soul. She remembered racing between shelves and piles of rubbish, cursing Harry's poor instructions about where to find the blasted thing. 

And she remembered, with the cold fingers of dread tripping up her spine, the feeling of being followed, the rustling of skirts along the floor in the next aisle, and the hand that reached out just as hers did, to grasp hold of Ravenclaw's diadem. 

Staring, horror-struck, into Bellatrix's eyes, she could not quite shake the eldest daughter off of her image, the sight of her crying out past midnight in the depths of an impossible forest, dreaming of this world's chains. 

"Ravenclaw would, wouldn't she?" Bellatrix said with a sneer. "Make a riddle of the thing." 

A riddle, thought Hermione, seeing the pieces of their quest fall further into place, sensing some age-old spirit of a well-intentioned founder fighting, centuries later, to give those who'd found it the chance to kill the evil that had been wrapped up in this piece of her legacy. There was power in ritual, in the removing of heads and hooves, in numbers, in... kisses, in multiples of three. 

Power enough, it would seem, to accomplish what she'd come for. 

"I—" she began, but what did one say, unknown hours into an impossible fairy tale and five terrifying minutes since? 

"You won't get another so easily," Bellatrix sing-songed instead. "Though I'll enjoy watching you try." Then, as though realizing that was more compliment than threat, her cheeks went a pink less pale than death, and she jerked around on her heel to hurry away down the aisle between towers of desks and detritus and cages and chairs. 

Hermione raised her wand at her back, but couldn't think of a single spell. 

"I'll be seeing you in the fray, otter-girl," she cast over her shoulder. 

And behind her, crimson-cheeked, Hermione sank down onto the floor beside the shattered crown, wand across her knees, wondering how she could ever explain to anyone, let alone herself, that the best kiss of her life happened at the lips of her worst enemy, in a fairy tale about a golden bird, in a Horcrux dream, in the depths of the place where everything is hidden. 


End file.
